


The Boy With the Violin

by StarsAndStitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Halloween 13, Autumn night, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Gen, Gregcroft, Halloween calendar 2019, Memories, Mottlemoth's Autumn Prompt Generator, October, Slightly spooky, Thank you Vulpesmellifera!, ghost apparition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches
Summary: On a disquieting autumn night, Mycroft‘s find his mind becoming unmoored as ghosts of a painful past haunt him. Trust Greg to make things better.





	The Boy With the Violin

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the "A Halloween 13" calendar organised by the lovely Vulpesmellifera. Thank you so much for that, Vulpes! It's an honour to be part of this ravishing Spook-toberfest!
> 
> After a false start that lead to nothing I was inspired by a prompt from marvellous Mottlemoth's Autumn Prompt Generator, and things flowed from there. Thanks a lot, dear Moth! It was most helpful. My prompt was:
> 
> This story takes place during a full moon.  
You must mention ghost stories,  
use the word 'twist'  
and include this line of dialogue:  
"Let me warm you up!"  
(Prompt fulfilments are underlined in the text).
> 
> Once again I owe a sea of gratitude to the fabulous [TheSoupDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon) for her steady support and friendship. Not only did she pull me out of the corner I had myself manoeuvred into, but also beta-read the story jeopardising her own health and helped me with the storyline. And you'll have her to thank for the ending which is not as ambiguous as I intended it to be initially. Thank you so much, my dear! ❤️ You‘re the best! Hugs!
> 
> And now, enjoy reading! :)

  


Mycroft shivered. Although there was a cosy fire crackling in the fireplace in his study he felt a chill he couldn't quite explain. Wearily, he took off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he had sat down to work a couple of hours ago, he had stripped off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, a decision he now regretted feeling the hair on his bare forearms standing on end like the gingery fur of a frightened animal. Mycroft’s hand automatically reached for his cup of invigorating Assam tea but halted when he realised it had certainly gone cold by now.

There was something deeply unsettling about late October evenings. When the darkness gained a tangible quality like a shroud and the boundaries between what was real and what was not were thinning.

These were the days when Mycroft sometimes imagined the gloominess chafing his sensitive skin and soul, and his thoughts grew restless and became unmoored. The inane hustle around Whitehall and the self-congratulatory vanity of its empty-headed denizens were unbearable at these occasions and Mycroft found himself retreating to the peace and quiet of his comfortable home in a particularly leafy part of Hampstead. Tonight, though, it seemed that his misgivings had followed him home.

With a sigh Mycroft stood from his desk and walked over to the drinks cabinet. Maybe something a bit stronger than tea would dispel the air of dread that had crept into his bones and was preventing him from accomplishing anything. The scotch flowed smoothly into the tumbler, glowing amber in the soft light of his desk lamp, a sparkling promise to soothe his frayed nerves. Mycroft took a thoughtful sip, the liquid fire rolling over his tongue and down his throat quite pleasantly.

He oughtn't feel so unhinged, he thought. He was as safe here as he ever could be. This house was much more of a home now than it had been in decades, now that Gregory lived here, too. A scarce few months ago, his partner had moved in with not much more than a few cardboard boxes and a well-worn guitar, and yet he had performed the miracle of bringing the house back to life again. Memories of past generations of Holmes family members that still lingered in the less regularly used rooms weren't so much gone as faded into the background. Never had Mycroft expected that a couple of DVDs strewn across the table in the sitting room, the sight of a football jersey drying in the laundry room, or the smell of home-cooked food were all what was needed to revive the Sleeping Beauty.

Smiling fleetingly at the happier thoughts, Mycroft drifted over to the French doors looking out onto the back garden, the drink clutched in his hand. The curtains were still tied back, and his gaze was drawn to the moonlit scenery outside. Like the house, the garden had lapsed in a kind of stasis, well-maintained by hired staff but not exactly lived-in. Where once children had roamed around and adults had chatted light-heartedly in a sheltered corner on the terrace, the mildew of a lifeless silence had fallen now.

Then Mycroft caught his own reflection in the windowpane, backlit from the fire, and actually flinched. The face looking back at him was that of a haunted man, the expression clouded and withdrawn. His skin prickled with unease and he began to feel hot. The comfortable room, the fire, the whisky in his tummy, everything seemed stuffy and oppressive all of a sudden. His collar was suffocating, his chest felt too tight. _Air, he needed air! _ Feverishly, he pulled open the door.

Hanging his head, his free hand gripping the doorframe, Mycroft forced himself to take long careful breaths as the cooler night air flowed in. He pressed the whisky glass against his forehead, struggling for calm and composure.

When he was able to look up again, his gaze reached out into the darkness, grappling for some mental anchor from the natural world outside. A full moon was on the rise, painting the garden with dramatic silver streaks. Across the sea of shimmering ripples that was the lawn, the small assortment of fruit trees and berry bushes beyond (“the orchard” as his grandmother Holmes had termed it somewhat pretentiously) were rendered in blackness. Their barren branches formed a twisted and snarled mass like writhing limbs of evil-minded or fiendish spirits frozen in time. The brisk wind drove swollen and leaden storm clouds across the sky at an angry pace, their edges outlined in silvery moonlight. Rustling dead leaves were stirred up in small eddies whirling over the paved terrace and gathering at Mycroft's feet. Some houses to the left a cat was meowing miserably.

It was a place he had known all his life, but in this light it looked more like a scene taken directly from one of the ghost stories Gregory liked to read.

Gradually, one deep breath at a time, Mycroft was calming down. The chilly breeze cooled his skin as well as eased his mind. The open night sky usually had that effect on him. Gazing upwards, he spotted some stars unperturbed as the fat clouds swept by them. _Orion_, he smiled as he recognised the familiar constellation at a glance. And he was thirteen years old again, being out in this very garden at night, stargazing, when he and Sherlock –

_No! _he cut himself off. _Don't!_ Nothing good would come of that.

It might have been a trick of the eye, fooled by the erratic play of light and shadows as the clouds hurried along overhead. But Mycroft was certain he saw something in the shadows at the treeline. There was that rickety bench, a bit hidden behind the apple tree. It had been a favourite place, not only of Mummy's but Sherlock's as well, though noticeably less rickety then than it was now. And as another horde of clouds passed by and the bench was in the moonlight again, there sat a small figure. A child.

Mycroft gasped. Not just any child. A thin boy, it seemed, of about eight or nine. Someone Mycroft would remember as long as he lived. His dark curls blended the shadows of the branches/tree above him, his fair skin gleamed in the moonlight. So fragile and precious that Mycroft's heart clenched in his chest and he didn't dare to breathe. The boy looked unhappy, hunched over on the bench, sullen and aloof. His body was translucent and hazy in the darkness as if a lazy painter had sketched it with just a few quick strokes not bothering to finish the work, and Mycroft couldn't quite make out whether he was wearing any clothes.

“Brother mine,” whispered Mycroft, his heart beating in his throat.

As if he had heard him the otherworldly boy lifted his head and looked directly at Mycroft. Starlight shone in his beautiful eyes, clear and bright. A violin appeared in his left hand, a bow in the right one. The boy – _Sherlock_ – stood slowly and turned towards the house. His eyes were sad and strangely huge as he stared at his brother, intense and pleading. Mycroft swallowed nervously. With his eyes firmly turned on Mycroft, the spectre tucked the instrument under his chin and set the bow onto the strings.

What had been the pitiful cat's caterwaul a moment ago became into a long-drawn screeching noise from the violin. Eerie shrill calls that made Mycroft's blood run cold again intermingled with angry, violent and reproachful staccatos as the not-really-there boy moved the bow across the strings. There was loss and fury and accusation, staggering from the mistreated instrument out across the silvery, moon-lit lawn. There was sullen disdain, and then pain and loneliness as softer, more melodious phrases crept into the play. All the time, the ghostly Sherlock did not turn his gaze away, his eyes shimmering with intention and maybe unshed tears.

“Sherlock...” stammered Mycroft, “I... I didn't mean... it wasn't...”

A small timid tune came from the violin, a whimper that welled up from the creaks of branches bridling at the strong gusts. Mournful and pleading, reaching out to Mycroft across the enchanted garden. And it lulled the tempestuous weather and emotions to a breeze.

Mycroft sighed. “It's alright, brother dear,” he mumbled. “I'm here.”

The violin tones smoothed out, grew softer and gentler and evolved into a proper melody. Clear chords rose to the autumn sky, brilliant as the silvery moon light. Mycroft relaxed, his breathing eased as he listened to the music. Heart-gripping notes condensed into bittersweet phrases that wafted across the lawn. And the boy-like figure under the apple tree swayed lithely with them, becoming one with his instrument effortlessly, immaterial like smoke and yet more present than the garden around him.

Moody melodies pulled at Mycroft’s heart, enticed him to join the vortex of entangled sentiment swirling under the full moon. He didn’t move though, mesmerised, as the strange creature made of moonlight and shadows exuded Sherlock’s essence for him. If he‘d stepped out into the garden, Mycroft was certain, it would’ve broken the spell and shattered the music into innumerable glistening shards and blown away with the wind. Instead he stayed rooted to the spot, unconsciously uttering soft soothing words under his breath whenever a new swell of turmoil threatened to overcome the more peaceful tune.

Stars drifted, the moon sailed along and herds of clouds cantered by overhead, and down below Mycroft watched and listened as the Sherlock-like apparition played and shifted, spellbound by its volatile nocturne under the dramatic sky. It might have been mere minutes or a full hour, until he heard soft socked footsteps approaching from behind his back. A familiar presence, a well-known aftershave, and a strong arm wrapped around his waist.

“Jeez, yer cold as ice, love.” Gregory said in his ear, putting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. “How long have you been out here?”

“Some time, I think,” Mycroft replied, reluctantly.

“What's wrong?” asked Greg, with mild concern in his voice.

“Just a bit... elsewhere. A bygone time.”

“Old memories coming back to yer? Bet you've loads of them about this place.” And as Mycroft didn't respond, he asked, “Sherlock?”

Mycroft nodded mutely, eyes still on the figure underneath the apple tree, unwilling to let go of his reverie. “He was always such a playful child,” he murmured at last. “But deeply troubled.”

Greg hugged him more tightly, his body heat seeping through Mycroft's clothes. “He's fine now. Happy. You know that, don't you?” His strong warm hand moved over Mycroft's right arm and plucked the whisky glass from his chilled fingers. “You can see for yourself on Saturday when him and John will come over for dinner.”

Mycroft turned his head and smiled at his lover. “Yes. Yes, he is. Thanks to Dr Watson and yourself.”

“Come on in then, gorgeous. Let me warm you up. I've got some ideas about that.”

And with a last wistful glance towards the boy with the violin, Mycroft turned back inside and into his lover's embrace. “Sounds wonderful, Gregory,” he said with a small smile.


End file.
